


One Last Miracle

by Wiseau_Wizard



Category: Eurovision Song Contest RPF, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-12 15:57:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7940503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wiseau_Wizard/pseuds/Wiseau_Wizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been a few months since Sherlock jumped and now everyone's lives have been ripped apart and in tatters. Can John ever get over his beautiful Adonis and is Greg's friendship enough to pull him from the abyss? Will Jim ever let go, or is Sherlock in more danger than ever? And more importantly, who is that mysterious and handsome young violinist who just showed up on his doorstep one day...?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. JIM

As the lights went down and the crowd roared, screaming for more, more, but none was forthcoming, Jim Moriarty felt a stab of a sensation he hadn't felt for a long time: pride. Pride had evaded him recently. He hadn't felt it since...no, no. He pushed the thought from his mind. This wasn't about him. And Jim could certainly guarantee that he was never what he thought about.

As the crowd began to file out, Jim snuck undetected backstage. He passed the security crew, who only glanced up briefly as he flashed his forged documents, and began to meander through the maze that was the backstage area looking for the dressing rooms. There was all sorts back there. Cables hung loose like jungle vines, and for a moment Jim was momentarily taken back to Colombia, when he had caught up with his client Janus and they'd gone for a trek in the jungle. That had been a good time. He had got himself twisted in the vines once or twice, and was only grateful that they hadn't been deadly snakes. He had heard there could be a lot of those in Colombia. Now though, when looked at the predatory vine-like cables, he was only plagued with images of them twisting around his neck...

He shook the thought away and placed his hands protectively in his pockets. He was out to make an impression tonight. He continued to weave his way through the backstage area until he found his destination: the dressing room for the star of the night's show. Beyond that black wood panelling lay the apple of Jim's eye; the one who he only had to think of to make his heart quicken; the one who filled Jim with sensations he could only have ever previously imagined: pride and joy. Alexander Rybak; Norwegian cum Belarussian prodigy, a hell of a fiddle player, the winner of the prestigious Eurovision Song Contest...and the progeny of James Simon Darryl Moriarty.

Suddenly the door burst open and Alexander burst out, caught somewhere between surprise and confusion. “Dad! You made it!” he exclaimed, beaming widely. He carefully put his fiddle down and embraced his father. Jim, being the bigger man, completely enveloped him and pulled his son into a crushing hug. Alexander was not a son Jim ever thought he would have. Truth be told, no-one was. Jim had never really imagined having children. But that weekend working with that rogue KGB agent in Ukraine and his sister...well, it had certainly been an interesting one.

“Did you like the show?” Alexander said, pulling his father into his dressing room. Jim was not the father Alexander had ever imagined he would have. Again, truth be told, no-one was. Alexander had always accepted his full parentage would be somewhat of a mystery. He had always felt a yearning deep in the pit of his heart to know fully where he had come from, but his mother had been insistent that he probably never would. And Alexander had been forced to accept that. After all, thanks to whoever it was, he had been raised in cushy Oslo rather than the slums of Belarus. Not that all of Belarus was like that, he reflected. But being the son of the sister of a rogue KGB agent certainly made it tricky to rise to the top in Russia's exclusive capital, Minsk. But then one day, when he had been fifteen, a peculiar Irishman had come knocking at his mother's door. And the rest was history.

“I did very much, son,” Jim said. “I'm so proud of you. You really are quite skilful with that fiddle of yours, aren't you?” Alexander shrugged beaming in a modest way, as if to say 'well..' He was currently on tour in Scandinavia, and he had just slain Stockholm. The crowd had loved him and he had loved them. He had just had a new album come out, and his latest hit “Europe's Skies” was a real hit, whilst classics such as “Oah” and “Fairytale” still didn't cease to wow the crowd.

Suddenly Jim felt overcome with more emotion. Here he was in Stockholm with his star of a son, and all he could think about was...it was pathetic. He was being silly. His son, one of Europe's greatest violinists, was sitting right opposite him. And all he could think about was a certain other violinist he had been forced to leave behind in London...

A single tear rolled down Jim's cheek. He hastily tried to wipe it away but Alexander saw. “Dad what's wrong?” he asked full of concern. His father was one of the strongest men he knew! It would have had to have taken a real something to get him in this state.

“No, it's fine. It's your night-”

“Dad, we're family,” Alexander explained. “We help each other out. Please.” Alexander leaned back, prepared to listen and not prepared to move until Jim was done. Jim sighed loudly. Perhaps it would help to talk about it. Jim opened his mouth and related the tale. Alexander's face had remained mostly placid but as his father's tale went on, he couldn't keep it up. By the time Jim was done recounting, Alexander himself was fighting back the tears as he forced himself to think about all his father had been through. So it wasn't a something then. It had been a someone. He might have known. It usually was.

“Dad I'm so sorry,” Alexander whispered, taking his father's hand. “It's...you've been very brave, coming out here tonight and telling me. You're a good dad.” Jim shrugged. He didn't think he was. But if Alexander really thought so, Jim was happy enough to let him. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Jim admitted. “I'm just so tired. It's part of the reason I came here. Obviously I wanted to see you but I just had to get away, you know?”. Alexander nodded understandingly. He did know. He had been through similar. “Oah”'s Moa hadn't just been a brilliant twist on his mind's part, after all. “But I really am proud of you. You did so well tonight.” Alexander nodded again, barely able to conceal the heartfelt whimper that had been building up since Jim had told him about this “Sherlock”. He just felt so sad seeing this wonderful, courageous man so...broken in front of him. This was his father. No-one should have the power to do this to his father.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“I'm just drained, son,” Jim smiled weakly. “Completely. There's nothing anyone can do. It's going to be a while before this bathtub gets plugged.”

That was beautiful, Alexander reflected. He could use that. Make it a tribute for his father. That might help cheer him up.

But then, out of the blue, his Moriarty genes kicked in. And an altogether better plan began to formulate in his mind...


	2. JOHN

JOHN

No matter how long seemed to pass, a day didn't go by where John didn't feel a pang. It had been nearly three weeks since Sherlock had jumped and John's life had once again been changed forever by the mysterious tall Adonis.

John remembered fondly the first time he had met Sherlock Holmes. There probably weren't many people who had met Sherlock who couldn't remember their first meeting with him. It had been at St Bart's hospital in central London, down in the depths of the pathology lab. John had just come back from serving in Iraq, where he had injured himself and been honourably discharged with a meagre pension to spend the rest of his life on. Quite by chance he had come across an old medical school comrade. John wouldn't have really described himself as a social person, especially not since coming back from Baghdad, but he had never stopped being a realist. Which is why he knew that if he wanted to live reasonably comfortably in London he would probably have to get a flatmate. Which is why it really had been such an odd stroke of luck that he had bumped into a fellow medical school survivor.

John smiled as he remembered the encounter, and grimaced as he remembered everything else. Stamford had had this wide grin on his face the whole time, like he knew exactly what Sherlock was going to come out with and he knew exactly how John was going to react. John always liked to think it would take more than some eccentricity to unnerve him, but Sherlock really had been something else. Sherlock wasn't someone you could ever really get used to. He was different every day. He had been different every day...now everyday he was just the same. Lying cold in the dead, hard ground, never to wow or irritate the world with his clever deductions again. And it had all been Moriarty's fault!

That Moriarty had also succumbed in the battle gave John little solace. John had tried to wrangle his way onto the postmortems for both men, but Molly had insisted he shouldn't be in Sherlock's. That was understandable. It would have been too difficult to have watched the beautiful soul that was Sherlock be sliced up and laid bare for the whole room to see. But as for Moriarty, well...John had just wanted to make sure he was actually dead. It would have been just typical for Moriarty to have cleverly faked his shooting while allowing Sherlock to fall to his death.

John felt the urge to cry at the injustice, but he also knew that he was dry inside. After the initial shock had worn off he hadn't shed a single tear. He just couldn't. Before Sherlock he had been dead inside because there was nothing to feel. Now Sherlock was gone, John once again was dead inside...but this time because he had everything to feel. And he couldn't allow himself to. His army instincts forbade it. It was the only defence mechanism he knew and it was a bloody efficient one. Of course he had on occasion been berated by Greg and Mrs Hudson for seeming to be so cold about the matter, but he had shrugged them off. He couldn't help it. This was how he coped. It wasn't the same for them. Greg had lost his consultant and Mrs Hudson had lost a tenant and both had lost what could best be described as an indelible acquaintance. John had lost the light of his life, his raison d^etre. Without Sherlock, life was empty and John was empty. He sometimes had fleeting thoughts of how nice it might be to be like Sherlock. Lying cold in the ground like him.

John put down his pint glass and shook himself. That was plenty of that, he thought. He couldn't let Sherlock keep ruling his life like this. Sherlock was dead, for god's sake! How could he continue to rule John's life? Was John really nothing on his own? That may have been true once and Sherlock may have been the heroin that had brought him back to life, but John had to be his own heroin now. He had to get off this drug and become self-subsistent.

'It really is an addiction,' he thought, a cold sensation creeping up the pit of his stomach. He had never seen that before. How had he not? He was a doctor! Addiction was what most of his patients suffered from! He should have recognised the signs.

John knew he needed help. He signalled to the barman to refill his glass and hastily texted Greg to come and meet him. He had other friends, of course, all of whom were sympathetic to his plight. But none of them understood, not really. None of them had known Sherlock like he had.

Within ten minutes Greg was at his side, full pint of rich, dark Guinness in one hand, cradling his head in the other. Greg looked worse than John.

“You got here quick,” John remarked.

“Rubbish day,” Greg sniffed. “I was just looking for an excuse to get out really. Sally's been on at me. I think she feels guilty. Or she wants to. And then she feels more guilty that she doesn't feel guilty.” John nodded understandingly but hoped Greg would change the subject. The less said about Sally Donovan the better. Moriarty may have caused Sherlock to jump, but if it hadn't been for Sally's vicious rumours Sherlock would never have been up there in the first place. John had never thought himself as a murderous man until Sally Donovan. He was a doctor, it went against everything he stood for. But every rule had an exception, and for him that was Sally. Bloody Sally! If she had just kept her fat mouth shut, none of this would have happened!

“She should feel guilty,” John spat out. “This is all her fault.”

“She was just doing her job, John,” Greg sighed, taking a large swig of his Guinness. “We all get it wrong sometimes.”

“She should have known better. In fact she did. She knew she was wrong. She did it out of spite.”

“Then you'll have to blame me too,” Greg said compromisingly. “I'm the one who allowed the investigation to go forward.”

“Yours hand were tied,” John reasoned. Greg nodded. He couldn't deny this. He hadn't wanted to proceed but Sally would only have gone over his head if he hadn't. He'd thought that if he did, he could keep some control. “And anyway you don't shoot the messenger. That's what you were really. You were just forced to act on Sally's lead.”

“You had to admit,” Greg began carefully. “It did all seem a bit suspicious. If we hadn't known Sherlock like we did, would we not have thought the same?”

“I would never have thought like that about Sherlock!” John shouted back indignantly, causing the rest of the pub to fall silent and watch the two men argue. Greg looked around uneasily but John was blind to the pub. He was angry now. “Are you trying to tell me you would?! OR THAT YOU DID?!” John was standing up now and attempting to tower over Greg threateningly, but even while the detective inspector was on a stool, John was too short.

“John please calm down-”

“I won't calm down! You're supposed to be his friend!”

“I am!” Greg retorted desperately. “I mean, I was, I mean...you're not the only one who lost someone.” John scoffed at this. Greg didn't know the meaning of the word. Perhaps asking him out had been a bad idea. John downed the rest of his pint at a speed that impressed even the old men in the corner who could always be found in the pub, and stormed out, leaving a distraught Greg in his wake. John didn't care. He didn't need him. All people ever did was let you down. He was better on his own.

Because the more you love someone, the more they'll inevitably break your heart...


	3. SHERLOCK

The trouble with being a genius, Sherlock reflected sadly, is that he was painfully aware of every painful, heart-bursting second. The only way he could dull the sensation would be to go back to heroin, his hero in his desperate hour of need. But he wouldn't do that. He couldn't do that. He couldn't do that to John. To tarnish his memory of the man who had made him human was unacceptable.

He paced around his little cottage, agonising over that instant where he had been forced to make the split-second decision, and constantly went over whether he could have only changed things. Was there anything else he could have done? Anything else to have kept his friends safe? Even now he couldn't be sure that they were. And the real bitch was, the only way to check and know for sure was to endanger them again! Sherlock hated how diabolical Moriarty's plan had been...and brilliant.

Because there was nothing he could have done. It had been so brilliantly simple in its doing that there was nothing for Sherlock to really unravel. No loose threads he could tug on just enough to make Moriarty's plan useless. It was so simple. Snipers all aiming at his friends, under order to fire if he didn't kill himself by a certain point. How else could he possibly have escaped that? How could he possibly have averted his friends' terrible fates without putting himself on the line like that? He couldn't. And Moriarty knew that. That's why it had been so brilliant. He had just known just where to stab so it would cut Sherlock deepest. John, Mrs Hudson...even Detective Lestrade hadn't been safe. And they were just colleagues! HOW COULD MORIARTY HAVE KNOWN?! HOW DID HE MANAGE TO GET INTO SHERLOCK'S HEAD JUST SO...

'No, no,' Sherlock thought. 'Calm down. I'm not doing anyone any good by getting frustrated. I just have to keep calm. I'll be able to go back one day.'

But when? The darker voice whispered. When will this happen?

It was right, of course. Moriarty wasn't really dead, of course he wasn't. He was like Sherlock, he'd never allow something so pedestrian to happen to him. No he was out there...somewhere. Which meant that none of Sherlock's friends were yet safe.

Moriarty almost certainly knew Sherlock had faked it. Because Moriarty's plan was the heart of brilliance. Threatening Sherlock's friends wasn't what would drive Sherlock mad...forcing Sherlock to remove himself from them in order to remove the threat would. And the only way to numb it would be to go back to the heroin which he couldn't do.

Sherlock instead turned to other tasks to keep him occupied. Tasks that didn't involve much thinking but using his hands a lot. A task that gave him an almost guilty pleasure when he realised how much pleasure he could get from it without John being present. And now felt about that time again.

He picked it in his hand and stroked it tenderly. He smiled at the sensation, filled with anticipation as he readied himself.

He picked his violin up, drew the bow across the strings, and began to sing:

“With azure eyes, as the ocean  
With pale skin as white as frost  
I find myself getting lost in  
This rugged soul, but at what cost

A mighty war wages inside  
Help me, I'm scared, let's go and hide  
A hand outstretched, he lifted me  
And showed me all that I could be

With calloused hands, signs of a tough  
Life lived, I can't help but wonder  
Now will I ever be enough  
For him to take me yonder

A mighty war wages inside  
Help me, I'm scared, let's go and hide  
A hand outstretched, he lifted me  
And showed me all that I could be

A ferocious bite, he barks orders  
Staying alive through it all  
He passed rivers and crossed borders  
I heard him then, his siren call

A mighty war wages inside  
Help me, I'm scared, let's go and hide  
A hand outstretched, he lifted me  
And showed me all that I could be

Under my wing, I thought I took  
Him in, but never understood  
All along I was but the rook  
To his King of all that was good

A mighty war wages inside  
Help me, I'm scared, let's go and hide  
A hand outstretched, he lifted me  
And showed me all that I could be

Right from the start, I was under  
His spell, but little did I know  
As lightning struck, and the thunder  
Roared, that I would soon have to go

A mighty war wages inside  
Help me, I'm scared, let's go and hide  
A hand outstretched, he lifted me  
And showed me all that I could be

Never was there a finer man  
That had my heart in such flotsam  
Never was there a better man  
Than my very own John Hamish Watson

A mighty war wages inside  
Help me, I'm scared, I want to hide  
John's hand outstretched, then faded away  
I'm left alone, no more to say

A single tear rolled down Sherlock's cheek as he added the finishing touches to “Ode to John.” He sniffed it away furiously, and as he gazed down at his work he couldn't but smile at the thought of John's expression. 'Surprised wouldn't be the word,' Sherlock thought happily, jotting down the final notes. He only hoped that he would get to play-

“I'm left alone, alone to play”

Yes, that was it. He only hoped John could hear it one day, even if it didn't come from Sherlock's own instrument. He really hoped John would get to hear it. John hearing Sherlock's voice was almost certainly out of the question. But if he couldn't just get this song out there, somehow...then his heart wouldn't be.


	4. ALEXANDER

As the waves crashed and roared far below, Alexander felt an odd kind of connection with the raging, frothy water. It was odd how the twists and turns you took in life could somehow deeply reflect everything you were feeling inside. And as Alexander stood and watched the hull take a battering, he reflected on how much of a mirror for life the water really could be sometimes. it all seemed. He smiled as he thought that, but then quickly shook it off. Now was NOT a time for smiling.

After having spent the night looking after his father and making sure he'd got back to his hotel safely, Alexander was on a mission. He hadn't seen and barely spoken to his father since he had coaxed the confession out of him, but that was okay. His father had business to attend to. And now, so did Alexander. Like father, like son, he would treat unafraid and do what he needed to do to get done what needed to be done. Of course, unlike his father, he couldn't really go boasting about his private mission. It all had to be conducted in top secret. Not even his father could know. Especially not his father...

It make him so angry, to think of everything this Sherlock had put his poor, long-suffering father through. It wasn't his father's fault, he'd just fallen for the wrong man. A deeply disturbed man. And now he was paying the price for daring to open his heart. Alexander scoffed angrily at the thought. As if opening your heart should be a daring feat! It should be beautiful, mutual and respected. This Sherlock didn't know what he was missing out on.

Oh but he would, Alexander thought, grinning widely from ear to ear. Alexander would see to that. He was glad he had chosen to stand at the front, where he could remain anonymous. A single glance at the right person (or perhaps that should be the wrong one!) and Alexander would have been swamped with fans and he'd have barely got a moment's peace. Usually he loved his fans, but today he didn't have the patience for them. And this was a big deal for Alexander.

'I must be angry,' he thought bitterly. He kicked the deck angrily, furious that this had happened to his family. But he was going to right it.

After hearing his father's harrowing tale, he had fled Oslo without so much of a goodbye and headed straight to Denmark. From there he could cross the sea to England. He was already making good tracks, and he could almost sense Kent getting closer and closer with each knot the Copenhagen-Dover ferry inched.

Up ahead he could just make out the ghostly pale cliffs...England. The air whistled around him as he whipped out his fiddle, and revelled in the screams of pain it echoed out as he drew his bow and furiously inflicted his anger on it. That was the good thing about being such a sensitive soul. There was rarely an occasion when he couldn't whip the violin out and play a brand new song he had just thought of.

Either side of him, dolphins popped their heads out of the water curiously, and began to jump and whirl with the ferry, mesmerised by Alexander's haunting song. That was all the encouragement he needed. Ahead in Kent, Fate awaited, and he was ready to play the Hand.

As soon as his ferry had pulled in, Alexander hopped over the railing and landed gracefully on the solid English concrete. He hastily stuffed his violin away and followed the signs to Immigration. Once he was through, it would be a long hard journey to get to Kent. But it would all be worth it.

He had managed to coax enough out of his father to know that was where he needed to start. He'd had spies placed all over, just watching and waiting. As Alexander had travelled, he had got in touch with them. After their initial surprise at being contacted so directly, and upon believing his tale, they had been more than...happy to help. (Which of course meant they were too scared of his father to refuse, but Alexander decided to cast that aside for now).

After hailing a cab, he instructed it to take him to his destination. As the driver chatted blandly at him and the countryside rolled gently by, Alexander felt himself lulled into a dream. It had been a long day and he still had a long way to go...maybe just a litt..zzzzz...

*

Alexander was roughly awoken some time later by an angry Cockney man, jumping up and down and demanding that Alexander pay him his fare! Alexander apologised and desperately scrabbled for his money...but to his horror, realised he only had Norwegian notes! He had been in such a hurry to get to England, he had forgotten to get some pounds.

This was bad. He could be in real trouble here. He'd heard about English cabbies. The man was turning positively red now, and there seemed to be nothing Alexander could say or do to calm him down...

'Hang on,' he thought suddenly. 'I'm a Moriarty!' He didn't know why it had taken him so long to realise, and could have slapped himself.

“I really don't think you wish to take that tone with me,” Alexander said firmly. “You may regret it if you do.” The cabbie faltered and stared at him incredulously. For a fleeting moment, Alexander thought he had scared the man to silence and mentally high-fived himself. But then in the next moment, he felt a cold clammy hand around his throat and hot metal burning through his waistcoat as he was slammed against the car.

“You what?” the great man hulked.

“You don't know who I am,” Alexander pleaded desperately, trying and failing to remove his neck from the death grip.

“You're right,” the cabbie. “I don't. Cos you're a nobody. But even nobodies have to pay their cab fare...one way or another...” The cabbie grinned evilly. It was only now Alexander realised that they had stopped in the middle of nowhere. For miles around were fields only. No villages, no farms, barely even a lone cow. It was just him and the cabbie.

“Please,” Alexander begged as the door to the back was flung open and Alexander was thrown ceremoniously thrown on the seats.

“What's that?” the cabbie. “Please?!”

“Unhand him!” a voice suddenly barked. The cabbie stopped in his tracks. Even Alexander was curious. There had been no-one around just now, he was sure of it.

“And who are you, a bleedin' 'ighwayman?” the cabbie jeered at the invisible stranger.

“If I was, you'd have far bigger things to worry about than your gambling debts,” the other man replied coolly. “And unless you want to go through an early repayment charge, I suggest you unhand this young man and drive away.” The cabbie gasped. How had...he known? This strange man, came out of nowhere... The stranger was right. He did have bigger things to worry about.

He tossed Alexander out of the car and spun the car away on its heels, it's wheels screeching in the distance.

“Sir,” Alexander clamoured. “Thank you.”

“I've had my fair share of run-ins with cabbies,” the other man smiled enigmatically. “They can be real bastards.”

“They sure can,” Alexander laughed nervously. “I never got your name.”

“Because I didn't say it. I'm Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

Now it was Alexander's turn to gasp.


	5. GREG

There weren't many occasions that Greg could think of where he had desperately physically craved a pint after work but given the news he had just received this was definitely one of them. He sat himself on a stool and indicated to the fit busty barmaid that he was waiting to be served. But he didn't know why he bothered really. Guinness wasn't a solution to this dilemma...and the way he was feeling now, he had had enough Irish things to last him a lifetime! But habits were hard to break and as she came over, he found himself ordering three pints of the rich liquid, each to be served in turn. The barmaid didn't look surprised. Perhaps she was used to police officers.

The news that Greg had received today had certainly thrown him for one, that was for sure. And the worst part was, this wasn't even the worst bit. He had received three very important bits of news from his superiors, each one more damning than the last. And now ahead of him lay the most difficult challenge of Greg's personal career...how to tell John.

Since their argument two weeks ago, Greg hadn't seen him. He hadn't looked for him this was true, but unusually John hadn't tried to contact him either. Perhaps he was still angry. Perhaps he was just sad and didn't trust Greg enough to show his real feelings. This thought in turn made Greg feel quite sad about the state of their friendship. Not to mention John's mental health! He would need to talk to someone. Even more so, once Greg broke the three bits of news to him.

There was nothing for it. Like ripping off a band-aid, he would just have to get it over with if he didn't want things to get especially hairy. He took his phone out and began texting.

*************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

After a radio silence, John eventually walked into the pub about three hours later by which point Greg had more than finished off his three pints...and his fourth, fifth and sixth. He was probably about nine in by the time John pulled up the bar stool next to him. He had a stony expression on his face.

'This is going to go well,' Greg thought dreadingly. He signalled to the barmaid and ordered John a pint, which he accepted wordlessly. He finally turned to Greg and said: “Am I here for you to apologise?” 'What for?' Greg through groggily. Then 'oh'.

“Not exactly,” Greg replied, downing his ninth pint in readiness for his confession.

“Then why am I here?” John asked coldly, his pint untouched. Greg steeled himself, butterflies trying to break out of his stomach. If John was acting like this now...

“I've had some news,” he said eventually propping himself up on his elbows and nearly slipping off the bar stool in the process.

“You've been sacked so you're drinking heavily t numb the pain?” John said callously, a hint of smirk on his face. Greg ignored this.

“The opposite,” he said. “I have been cleared-of all charges.” Not that there had really been any. What he meant was he had been cleared of wrongdoing in the investigation into why Sherlock had been given so much access. But now didn't seem the time to rile John...further.

“Good for you,” John said coldly and downed his pint. He lifted his glass expectedly and Greg nodded to the barmaid to get John another one. At least at this rate he'd only have to get John three pints to get the news out. “That can't be all you invited me here for.”

“No,” Greg confessed. But then in his drunken state he added “But you're my friend so I thought you'd be pleased for me.”

“Oh yes. I'm so pleased that you've been cleared for your part in causing the wrongful death of a brilliant man!” he spat back, downing his second pint. He gestured for a third.

“Well you'll like this next news then,” Greg retorted. “Sherlock's been cleared too. Pos-pos...posternously.” John frowned. Greg really was drunk.

“Posthumously?” he guessed. Greg nodded. But John didn't look pleased.

“He should never have been under investigation in the first place,” John growled.

“John-”

“No!” John yelled.! “No Greg, no! YOU FORCED HIM THERE! HE should NEVER have been on that rooftop! And you know why he was?! Because YOUR department – who he had helped invaluably over the years – forced him there! YOU KNEW BETTER!” With this John smashed his pint glass on the floor for emphasis. The pub around them had fallen silent. It was just like last time. “Your problem, Greg, is that you're a coward. A simple yes-boy who'll do anything to please your boss. Even if the means the loss of someone's life!” With that, John stood up hastily and began to storm out. But by this point, Greg had had enough.

“Oh yeah!” he spat back. John stopped and turned. It was time to break the final bit of news. “Well if I'm such a coward, how about this?! JAMES MORIARTY IS STILL ALIVE!”


	6. SHERLOCK & ALEXANDER

It had been three weeks since Alexander had been rescued from the cabbie by Sherlock. As soon as Sherlock had realised that Alexander was shaken and had nowhere to stay, he had offered him the spare room in his cottage. He had been so kind, so tender...but no. Alexander needed to remember who he was and why he was here at all.

Still Alexander couldn't help but fondly remember the encounter:

“Are you all right?” Sherlock had asked as soon as the cabbie had sped away. Alexander was slumped on the floor, clutching his fiddle for dear life. He gazed up at the handsome stranger towering over him, and as he stared into the deep ice blue eyes, he would have buckled there and then if he hadn't already fallen on the floor.

“I'll live,” Alexander said stoically, trying to raise a smile.

“Statistically that does seem likely,” the stranger agreed. He stretched a hand out, and after hesitating, Alexander took it and pulled himself up. He almost instantly lost his balance and was caught by Sherlock. He couldn't help but return his gaze to the man's eyes. They were mesmerising. He had half a mind to whip out his fiddle there and then and craft a song but – for the first time ever – the words failed him. How to even begin-

“You're shaking,” the stranger remarked. Alexander looked down and realised that he was indeed trembling. “Where do you live?”

“I don't,” Alexander bumbled. “I mean – I don't live here, I am only visiting.”

“Where?” Sherlock repeated patiently. He still held Alexander gently in his arms. For some reason, Alexander didn't feel compelled to move from the embrace. This was...comfortable. Right, even.

“I don't know,” Alexander admitted. “I only arrived a few hours ago.”

“You don't have accommodation booked?!” Sherlock gasped, the icy abyss of his eyes filling with concern. Alexander shook his head, returning the gaze with a piercing one of his own. “Well I can't leave you in the middle of nowhere,” Sherlock resolved. “Not in this condition. You'll have to come and stay with me...for the time being,” he added hastily. Alexander could only nod.

Whenever Alexander had pictured the man who had captured, toyed with before finally smashing to fine smithereens his father's heart, he had never really been sure what image to conjure. He had imagined a great hulking beast with a charming smile and kind eyes, just enough to lure his father in under false pretences before lunging. But this...Alexander hadn't expected this. He had expected Sherlock to be attractive but to be encountered with this adonis! Alexander had been thrown.

That night, as Sherlock had seen him to bed and pulled the covers up over the bare-chested Alexander, Alexander had felt a flutter of something. He had put it down to nerves and shock from the horrors of the day and tried to think nothing more of it. But as the weeks had gone on and he had recovered, that feeling hadn't gone away.

Sherlock didn't tend to go out much, Alexander had noted, and given the whole reason was Alexander was here, he too had found himself housebound. He had spent the first few days in bed recovering from the shock so that was all right. He had been pleasantly surprised to find that Sherlock was prepared to wait on him hand and foot. This didn't quite extent to bathing him, but Alexander couldn't help but think that if he had asked, or even offered, Sherlock probably wouldn't have declined. For someone so afraid of intimacy, he had been strangely inviting to a complete stranger with a foreign accent.

For Sherlock's part, he welcomed the company. HE had been so lonely for so long. Ever since...everything had happened. He had got so used to having the funny little man that was John around the house and then when he had had to leave, it had stung to find himself alone again. This was the trouble with getting attached to people. You learn to love having them around and to love them. You got used to their quirks. And then to suddenly have that all ripped away...by a super villain no less! That was why he had been so happy to invite Alexander back. He liked having someone around. Someone who amused him, someone to keep him in check. And now he had whole new funny little man to get used to. A funny little Norwegian man.

It was a typically drizzly day in Kent when Sherlock finally plucked up the courage to ask what he had meant to ask Alexander for a while: “Would you play for me?” Alexander had simply been lounging in an armchair in the lounge reading hid favourite book that had happened to be on the bookshelf when Sherlock had entered the lounge. He had barely registered the man's presence before but now he was all ears.

“Play for you?”

“Yes.”

Alexander didn't really know what to say to this. Did Sherlock mean what he thought he meant???

“It's just, it's so rare I come across another artist such as yourself,” Sherlock explained. “Most people butcher the violin.”

“That's very true,” Alexander agreed sitting up interestedly.

“But I look at you, and I look at your hands...they seem so soft, so delicate. They seem like they'd know what to do.” Alexander sat up further. “Your fingers...they look like they would really know their way around the area.” By this point Alexander was sat up so far his head was almost through the ceiling! “You just seem like you would be...marvellous...” Sherlock trailed off, catching Alexander's intense gaze. The two men stared at each other for a moment, just losing themselves in each others' eyes, Alexander perched on the edge of his seat and Sherlock posed to fall into the abyss that was Alexander's intense stare.

“Forgive me,” Sherlock said quickly, catching himself. “That was inappropriate.”

“Not at all,” Alexander assured him, standing up and moving closer to Sherlock. Perhaps this would be easier than he thought. “It would be an honour to play for you.” He quickly dashed from the room to his room and came just as quickly back down with his fiddle. His mind was racing. Was this really going to be so easy? It had always been his intention, for his revenge to happen this way. His fiddle was his essence, his very being...which meant he knew just how to use it to manipulate others. “I would like to start with a song I wrote very recently,” he said by way of introduction, casting his mind back to the fateful ferry crossing. Sherlock probably wouldn't even realise it was about him. Certainly if he played it orchestrally. By the time he was finished, Sherlock was very moved. He had planned to stay standing to show he was aloof and not intimdated but he just couldn't quite manage it as the beautiful notes assaulted his ears.

“I was right,” Sherlock smiled, admiring the way Alexander's fingers deftly played the instrument in his arms. “Play another one for me? Perhaps a Norwegian one this time.”

“I do not tend to play Norwegian songs,” Alexander confessed. Although his mother was Norwegian, he himself had never felt much of a connection to the country. “There is another one I could play though. It is a traditional Belarussian folk song, where my father is from.” Not strictly true but it was certainly where he had been conceived which was basically the same thing. “It...means a lot to me,” he added quietly. Sherlock nodded for him to proceed. And so Alexander began to play one of his hits, Strela Amura, and this time he sang too. It didn't have quite the same ring to it without the backing singers and instruments, but the storm Alexander felt inside was more than enough to convey the message of its haunting melody. By the time he had finished the closing notes and taken a small bow, Sherlock was in tears.

“You really are an artist!” Sherlock gasped tearfully. “However did you learn to play such beautiful music?! That song was...it haunts me.”

“I wrote it,” Alexander replied bashfully, putting his fiddle down. He waited expectantly. Now was his moment. He just had to tread carefully.

But before Alexander knew what was going on, Sherlock shot up, closed the distance between them and pulled Alexander into a crushing kiss. Sherlock tenderly applied pressure to the other man's lips and Alexander, despite himself, found himself kissing Sherlock back just as enthusiastically. Their lips moved together, danced together. Their tongues staged a mini swordfight in Alexander's mouth, darting here and there, lunging and parrying, twisting and blocking...and Alexander never wanted it to end.

But all to soon Sherlock hastily pulled away.

“I am sorry,” he said breathlessly. “Forgive me, I-”

“Shh,” Alexander whispered tenderly. “There is nothing that needs to be forgiven. That kiss...was not something you need to apologise for.” But Sherlock was clearly flustered and hastily left the room. Not that Sherlock was the only one who was flustered...

*

It was another week before Alexander plucked up the courage to begin putting his plan back into action. He had been so thrown by the kiss, by how easy it had been...or more to the point, how much he had enjoyed it...but he had taken a week to recover, and he was ready to get back on track now. And his first task was to get Sherlock to repay the favour...

He approached him in the kitchen as he was making a pot of tea. Alexander didn't say anything, and simply laid Sherlock's violin on the kitchen counter. Sherlock looked up at him in surprise. “You want me to play for you?”

Alexander shrugged: “It seems only fair seeing as I did for you.” Well Sherlock couldn't argue with that logic.

He started his private concert for Alexander with some simple songs that were favourite, ones that he could play in his sleep if he wanted to. As the songs went on and he got more and more into his rhythm, the songs became more complex, and he got a perverse jolt of pleasure from watching Alexander's expression turn from placid to forced boredom to admiration to mesmerisation. Alexander could not get enough of it, Sherlock realised laughing inside. But it made sense really. Only a fellow artist could fall for...no, appreciate a fellow artist so. By the time Sherlock was done playing, Alexander applauded politely.

“You have a real gift,” he said, his voice full of wonder. But something was bothering him. “But something's bothering me.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Where is the heart? Your skills, your technicals, your method – they're all flawless. But I just didn't believe you were really playing it, you know? Your hands were playing the instrument but the violin is all about heart and passion. Where is yours?”

“If you must know,” Sherlock sighed. “I lost it.”

“Why?” Alexander gasped.

“A lost love,” Sherlock confessed unashamedly. At this Alexander's heart faltered. Surely Sherlock didn't mean...was Alexander making a terrible mistake?! “His name was John Watson. Well, is,” Sherlock explained. Alexander's heart rate resumed to normal. “He's not dead. But he thinks I am. And for all intents and purposes I may as well actually be a ghost in his heart...and that's just as hard.” Sherlock choked back some tears. Alexander was staring intently at him again.

After a while, Alexander said quietly “Show me.” He didn't need to explain. Sherlock knew exactly what he meant. And then he did what he had never been done before. He opened his heart and poured his very soul out for all to see as he played the opening notes of Ode to John. At the end, as he had planned, he substituted the last line with “I'm left alone, alone to play”. He opened his eyes as he finished and knew he had hit the nail on the head when he saw Alexander's tear-streaked face.

“What's wrong?” Sherlock asked, full of concern. Alexander shook his head.

“Nothing,” he sniffed. “You really love him don't you?”

“John?” Alexander nodded. “Yes.” 'Yes, I suppose I do. I must do. There's no way I could be moved like this if I didn't love him.' Alexander was just a blip, he realised. A surrogate John. A funny little man who had come swanning into his life uninvited...and now wouldn't let go of his heart. John, that is. Not Alexander. Is this why he was crying? Sherlock wondered. Did Alexander feel more for him than he did for Alexander? He had kissed him, yes...but surely that's because he had imprinted John onto Alexander?

“I want to help you,” Alexander pledged. “I am going to help you. You have to get this message out there. You have to let John know, even if it's from beyond the grave, that you still love him. I have connections.” More than you know, Alexander thought bitterly as he remembered himself. “ I can help.”

And then you'll wish you really were dead...


	7. JOHN

“This is the final boarding call for flight…” the announcer’s voice trailed off as John stifled a yawn. He had been at this bloody airport for over six hours now! Surely his flight had to come up sooner or later.

He hadn’t expected to find himself in this position. Certainly not this late in life. Or ever really. My how dark and deep a turn his life had taken. He sometimes wished he had never bumped into Stamford that fateful spring day in the centre of London. He sometimes wished he had just been killed in the blast that given him his injury in Afghanistan. It would have made everything so much simpler. See, John may have been a GP (now at least) but he knew a thing or two about psychology. It was part of their training, to cover mental health. It had never really been John’s bag but he had had to pass it to become a doctor. And he knew enough to know that once the brain was wired to get used to something, it had a lot further to drop when that something was taken, and the consequences were far more deadly and disastrous than if that thing had just never happened in the first place. So if he had never bumped into Stamford, he would never have led the extraordinary life Sherlock had invited him into. And if he hadn’t done that…well he was sure he would still feel pointless, but not quite so much.

He drummed his fingers on the seat. He knew he had been behaving very erratically lately and that his few surviving friends had put up with a lot from him. He’d been out drinking most nights, had taken up to (attempting) sleeping with different women every night, and had once even tried actual heroin just to see what all the fuss was about! That one he hadn’t confessed to Greg about because he knew he would be horrified and would probably set that bitch Donovan on him. But he couldn’t help but not care. He couldn’t help but not feel sorry. It’s not that he wanted them out of his life, nothing like that, but he just couldn’t bring himself to care if they cut themselves loose and went tumbling to the abyss. Like, he was on the verge of doing himself. The John Mountain may have been mighty once but one too many earthquakes had hit it recently, and he was truly on the verge of collapsing and caving in. And everyone he loved, held dear, loved him or held him dear, served to be trapped if they were there when he went. ‘So I’m actually being selfless,’ he realised, smiling slightly. In behaving like such a nob to his mates, he was actually saving them.

And John suspected the eruption cave-in was probably closer than anyone else might suspect. After Greg had broken that terrible, heart-rendering shred of news to him, that even though that beautiful Adonis had sacrificed himself for all of them, James Moriarty had somehow managed to escape unscathed. How? HOW?!!! He had been at the man’s bloody post-mortem himself! Or outside of it at least. In the end, even Molly had been kicked out of that one. Too highly-classified, they had said. Well fake autopsies of fake dead people were bound to be ,weren’t they?!

John rally hadn’t known how to react when he’d heard it. He had just stood there in stony silence when Greg told him. He wanted to punch the other man for being so callous; he wanted to run up to him and fold himself into his arms for a cuddle; he wanted to yell at him, scream at him, even strangle him just-to-GIVE THAT RAAAGE SOMEWHERE TO GO! But he had been able to held it in and in the end had just walked out, leaving Greg stunned at the lack of exterior reaction. That was another perk of being a doctor sometimes, John realised. It have you some brilliant acting experience when you had to act all cold and poker-faced when breaking bad news to your patients. John had inverted it somewhat, instead acting all cold and poker-faced when the bad news had been broken to him, but he thought he’d done a good job of pulling it off.

Out of nowhere, John suddenly found a memory. It had been a fancy dress party, Halloween most probably, last year. He and Sherlock for reasons even he couldn’t quite understand, had decided to dress up as Legolas and Gimli from Lord of the Rings. John was naturally Gimli; not only because he was quite short and little, but also because Sherlock was the closest man who could ever pull of an Orlando Bloom. John had been wowed there and then that very night at just how…incredible Sherlock was. There was nothing the man couldn’t do with little effort. There were many things he wasn’t willing to do, granted…but for some reason he had been all for this. John had partly hoped that it was perhaps his influence. He still liked to think that today. At one point in the evening, Sherlock had suddenly come running at him beaming. “What does an Italian archer say to his lover?” Sherlock had yapped excitedly. After looking very confused for a minute John had eventually given in and asked:

“I don’t know, Sherlock. What does an Italian archer say to his lover?”

Then, in a surprisingly accurate representation of an Italian accent, Sherlock replied: “I will a-make you a-quiver,” giggling.

That had been one of the first times John had ever heard Sherlock share a made-up joke with him. He felt that their relationship had turned a corner that night. No longer was everything about work and deducing things. They had just simply had fun. And then it had all been ripped senselessly away…

In a way, the news about Moriarty had actually set John free. He had felt purposeless for so long. But now he had one again. Greg had heard Moriarty was still alive? That was okay. That just meant he was still around to be taken down. John had tried to probe Greg for his whereabouts but Greg hadn’t been forthcoming with that information. So John had done the task of tracking Moriarty down himself. Which is why he now found himself at London Airport, waiting for his flight to his destination. When his flight number was finally called about eight hours after he’d first arrived, he was first to board the plane so he could make sure he had a seat at the front so he could be the first leave at the other side.

‘I’m coming for you, Jim,’ John thought dangerously. ‘And one of us is going to die.’


End file.
